


Talk

by kollapsar



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: College AU, Fluff, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Zexion is surprisingly nice and Demyx is haplessly crushing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6977248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kollapsar/pseuds/kollapsar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the tumblr minific prompt: Things you said when you thought I was asleep.<br/>It takes 45 nights, broken heater, and a shared bed for Demyx and Zexion to properly get together, because what is pacing when you're in college? In the mean time, Zexion can only ever get over himself enough to be honest with Demyx when he thinks he's asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for bennewwe on tumblr and you can read it on that post if you want to [here](http://kollapsar.tumblr.com/post/144773131066/this-is-way-longer-than-a-minific-i-am-so-sorry-). :D

  
Let me tell you what they say about you. They say you don’t talk much, but they’re wrong. You can talk circles around a guy- everyone who says you can’t talk totally missed last Spring semester’s required gen-ed World Lit class, where you crushed the dumbass who was trying to slut-shame Helen in the Iliad. (Not gonna lie, I didn’t notice you were even in that class until that moment, you were always so quiet. And then, after, you were all I saw.)  
  
So yeah, no, you can talk if you want to. When you want to. You just don’t talk about how you feel. There’s a difference.  
  
So when I find out we live on the same dorm floor, I might show up more often in the communal room when I see you there, head in a book. I might sacrifice my reputation and self-respect and become That Guy with the sitar plucking away in the common room when I know you’re there, but I totally play it off like I’m just waiting for my ramen to microwave. Do you buy it? I don’t know- who the hell carries their sitar around to play when they’re waiting the whole three minutes for their ramen to microwave?- but one day you put your book down and actually freakin’ talk to me.  
  
*  
  
Night one, two weeks later. The heat in your dorm room breaks. The system in all the building is shit, alternating between freezing itself into non-functionality and melting down and downright breaking all the time, and it’s your turn and I can tell because you’re in the common room more than ever, and more often than not you’re in two layers of sweaters. Tiny you, curled up on the couch where you always are.  
  
“If it’s really shitty in yours,” I start, looking down and strumming a lazy tune from my sitar. “I mean, the cold- uh. You can always sleep in my room. Axel is hardly around.”  
  
I don’t know where the words came from. I certainly don’t know where I got the bravery to muster them. You look up from your book, say, “What?”  
  
And I almost don’t want to repeat myself, my mouth is so dry. “I said,” I start, haltingly, my hands on the strings and suddenly shaky. “You can sleep in my room if it’s too cold in yours.”  
  
You’re expressionless and it’s giving me a heart attack. “In your bed, or Axel’s bed?”  
  
“Well,” my nose scrunches up and I smile, finding my bravery. “You don’t want to sleep in Axel’s. God knows what he’s done in it.”  
  
You nod. “Fair enough.”  
  
And I think, Holy shit, is that all it takes to get Zexion Ishida to stay with me?  
  
“I’m staying up late,” you say while I’m busy trying not to smile like a dumbass. “I need to finish this reading before tomorrow’s class.”  
  
“Okay,” I say. And I’m pretty sure I’m grinning like a dumbass despite my best efforts.  
  
*  
  
You are as late as you say, but I haven’t exactly been sleeping well. Or at all. You mumble a greeting as you slip in, and I can feel exactly how cold you are even through the sheets, through those two layers you’re still wearing. I roll over and push my blanket over you, fit the two of us in more comfortably on the top of this bunk bed. “My apologies,” you whisper. “I woke you.”  
  
“Nah,” I mutter, feigning sleepiness. I go silent then, breathing in the air where you fit perfectly in my chest and trying not to think too hard about this or anything at all. I always sleep better with other people, so in a way, you’re helping me, but I don’t tell you that.  
  
*  
  
Night fifteen, and snow is on the ground outside. Just light flakes of it, you know, but it’s still something that captures my attention when I twist and see it dusting the pavement, through the window from the high perch of my bed. The door creaks open, and you slip in, trying very hard to be quiet. It’s like, three in the morning. I pretend to be asleep as you climb upward and fit yourself in my arms.  
  
“Demyx. Please, wake up,” you say.  
  
“Nnh?” I murmur, feeling your small hands grip at the blankets and yank them out from under me, slipping beneath. “What’s up?” My groggy voice is great and convincing, I’m sure. Talents of being a singer.  
  
“I just wanted to thank you,” you whisper. “I’m always gone in the morning. And we don’t otherwise discuss it.” A pause. I can’t see your face but I wish I could. You squeeze the fabric of my shirt, then release. I can’t believe I haven’t kissed you yet, as much as I want to. You’re so intimidating in the halogen lights, but when it’s just the two of us, like this, all I can feel is how soft your voice is. “That’s all. You can go back to sleep.”  
  
I stretch my neck on the pillow and think hard on what you’ve said, drumming my fingers across the small of your back until I forget to. And then, like always when you’re around, I drift off too fast to put my thoughts together. I think you’re like a sedative to me, but that wouldn’t be right, you’d correct me on it, because you make my heart go fast, too.  
  
*  
  
Night thirty. It’s two weeks until finals, and I’m screwed. The world won’t stop spinning and I’ve fallen asleep sitting up- or I kind of fall asleep, before I wake up and strum a few more lazy chords, before I drift off again into a sickly, congested stupor. You come in and are clearly surprised because the lights are on and instead of my own, I’m in Axel’s bed, shirtless and clearly a mess.  
  
“Demyx,” you say, staring. “You smell of cough syrup and Tums… you shouldn’t be up.”  
  
“So?” I shoot back in a thick voice, strumming an adaptation of a Rage Against the Machine chord to accentuate my rebellion. “I do what I want.” And maybe I just gave a big recital today by the skin of my teeth, and I’m dying trying to not think about my grade. A big yawn cracks in my chest and I loudly let it out, easing my sitar into my lap and looking at you, putting my chin in my hands and grinning. “I didn’t know if you’d come tonight, Zex. You shouldn’t, I’m sick and all, you might get it- wait, geez, you can smell me from here?”  
  
You shake your head, frowning. “I only came to tell you I can’t sleep here tonight. A presentation tomorrow, my partners took too long to put together without rehearsal… It’s abysmal…” you trail off. It’s like you’ve sensed emotions seeping into your tone, and you have to stop before you reveal too much, as always.  
  
I get it. “Can you tuck me in at least? I’ve taken all my meds, so…” I give you my winning smile. Or as winning as it gets when I’m this drugged up. “Please?”  
  
You raise an eyebrow. “As you are? Not in the top bunk. You will have to settle for whatever mystery stains Axel has in his, I think.”  
  
I pout, but I let you yank the blanket off the top bunk and push me flat on Axel’s bed. You move slowly, deliberately, carefully taking my shoes off and placing my sitar so lightly on the floor that it hardly makes a sound. “How high on cough syrup are you?” you ask, sounding amused as you press a palm against my brow. You’re soothingly cool, and I nuzzle against it, enjoying the sensation.  
  
“Enough,” I say, yawning again. My lips find your hand- I kiss it, unthinking, and turn away next. That was almost embarrassing.  
  
You pause. “And your recital?”  
  
“I got through it, you know?” I whisper. “Can you stay until I fall asleep or do you have to go?”  
  
“…I can stay,” you concede. “I can read on my tablet.” And you go to shut off the lights, pattering as quietly as you can in that considerate way of yours.  
  
“Thank you,” I say, and curl up in the bed, going quiet as the world swirls in my body and brain and stills at jolting occasions. Just weathering the cough syrup drunkenness my head takes on takes up all my effort.  
  
I forget you’re there, everything is so quiet. By the time you brush a hand to move my hair and press a kiss to my forehead, I almost give myself away by stopping short of breath. “Goodnight, Demyx,” you say. “Please feel better. For my sake.”  
  
*  
  
Night forty-one, and it’s finals. Everyone can tell, just by how many people have been in the library lately. It’s like an exhausted, breathable haze of strain in the air. You blew me off there today, wanting to be alone in the cubicle with your fifteen books and that paper you had. I can’t say it didn’t upset me- music majors have a shit ton of things to worry about too, like recitals and sectionals- but, well, it’s finals. Everybody’s a little on edge. Even you were, with your glasses and your usually calm expression drawn tight in concentration over your books.  
  
Your book bag barely thuds as it hits the floor- you’ve come straight here. The cold of outside is stark on you as you slip in with me, not speaking in apologies. Not saying anything at all, really. I haven’t tucked in the blanket so you can pull it up and slip in easily, too-cold, too-small. Too much.  
  
“You’re so damn distracting,” you whisper- more like snarl, if you weren’t so quiet. And I know you don’t think I’m awake. A silence, billowing with your harsh breathing. “You don’t even know, do you?”  
  
It’s harder to sleep than usual that night. Your breathing eventually evens out but I can’t forget your words.  
  
*  
  
Night forty-five. My life is in a duffel bag and sitar case by the door, and Axel’s already gone home. The dorms are preternaturally quiet- no drunken yelling, no late night conversation, no Netflix seeping in through the walls of next door. Just silence inside- and the snow has consumed all the noise of outside, coating the world in pristine chilly white that shows even at this late hour.  
  
You’re on top of me, your bare flesh on mine. We’ve been like this for hours, I think- I have no way of telling, but you’ve gone warm against me and it’s the best feeling in the universe, more heart-racing than the best performance I could ever give. I think you think I’m sleeping again, because you’ve stopped talking to me conversationally, and I’ve stopped replying, even as your hands trace patterns across my chest in idle fidgeting motions.  
  
And then you say, softly, “I can barely comprehend… how someone like you happens to someone like me.”  
  
I can’t help but snort a laugh, and your fingers instantly go still, surprised.  
  
You look up at me, eyes wide, fringe falling over your right in a fragile motion. You look like a deer caught in headlights, cast in the vague light of the moon outside, until you compose yourself and go steely, expression stiff. “You heard me?”  
  
“Yeah,” I say, opening my eyes and shifting to pull you in closer, kiss you long and soft. “I heard you.” I run a hand through your hair and press your brow to mine. “You know, people say you don’t talk much?”  
  
Caught off-guard, you make a sort of low, derisive noise. “I don’t see the point.”  
  
“Yeah, you’re right,” I reply, laughing. “You don’t, but you can.”  
  
You look at me, drawing back and clearly disarmed. You look like I’m about to say something that’ll hurt you.  
  
“No, I love when you do. I don’t mind,” I say. “No, but… damn, the things you say when you think I’m sleeping.”  
  
I’ve never seen you go so red, but next thing I know, you’re laughing, the heat stroking my face as you bury your face in my neck. “Oh, goodness, I can’t believe-”  
  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you earlier.”  
  
“Demyx… seriously, damn you.” You chuckle into my skin.  
  
“In my defense,” I say, “you can always tell me things when I’m awake.”  
  
“Before tonight, I never thought if that would be appropriate.”  
  
“And whispering to a knocked out guy is?” I laugh.  
  
“Oh, God.” You groan. I can’t help myself; I’m delighted.  
  
I hold your face in my hands and bring you to look at me. “Please, really,” I grin, “feel free to say what you like to me, awake or unconscious. I love it all.”  
  
“You’re irredeemably terrible, honestly, how dare you,” you mutter, face darkening even as you shift a knee to raise yourself above me. “You’re enjoying this.”  
  
“Just a bit,” I laugh. “Keep talking.”  
  
You kiss me harder than you have all night and we say nothing after.


End file.
